


Pulse

by derangedfangirl



Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 04:10:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derangedfangirl/pseuds/derangedfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's not that you're dangerous, Maverick.  It's that you have all the self control of a fucking child."  Top Gun Kink Meme fill- Spanking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Barely harnessed rage thrums in him, pure kinetic energy, usually steady hands shaking too badly to even unzip his flight suit.  His skin feels foreign and too hot; suddenly, Iceman’s call-sign seems more ironic than apropos.  He leans his forehead against his locker, trying to absorb some of its metallic coolness.  It doesn’t work.

Beside him, Slider yanks on his civvies and claps a hand to Ice’s shoulder, saying something like, “Don’t kill him, Ice.  Not worth the court martial.” but Ice hears it with a six second delay, like he’s underwater, and by the time he opens his mouth to respond, Slider’s gone along with everyone else.

Everyone except Maverick.  Maverick who almost just got himself killed, put his whole fucking unit in danger, almost got _Ice_ killed, Maverick who’s been showing up at his house for the past seven weeks and getting way too close- Ice slams his palm against the locker, hard- he thought it’d be different after Goose, that his RIO’s death might’ve knocked some fucking sense back into Maverick, but that would require him to have had some goddamn sense in the first place, and clearly, that is not the case.

Hurricane Mitchell blows through the doors, his chin jutting out like he’s just daring someone to challenge him.  

  
Unfortunately for him, Ice is the only one there.  

  
Unfortunately for him, getting into his locker requires putting his back to a seething Iceman who’s running on pure rage and adrenaline, and if Maverick thinks _he’s_ unpredictable, he hadn’t seen anything, yet.  

Ice can feel Maverick’s wary eyes on him, calculating the risks to his person in his rigid form, before he cautiously turns and yanks his locker open, obviously intending to get out of there and get shit-faced as soon as humanly possible.

“You have fun out there, Maverick?” Ice murmurs, deceptively light, “That get your blood pumping the way you wanted?”  He spins on his heel, leans against the locker, face slipping into a comfortably glacial mask.  Maverick’s jaw clenches, hands slowing, but he doesn’t say anything.

“ _Well?_ ” Ice prompts, voice like a straight-razor.

“Well what, Kazansky?” Maverick growls, reckless and hotheaded just as Ice had known he’d be, “What the fuck do you want me to say?  I had the time of my goddamn _life_ out there.” he spits, hackles raised like a pissed off cat; sarcastic and easy to goad into anger.  

“Yeah.  Yeah, I’ll bet you did.”  

Maverick spins, taking an ill advised step toward Ice, because he seems to think that Iceman being less likely to come to blows with the first asshole who questions his masculinity makes him all talk and no action.  It’s a mistake he’s unlikely to repeat.  

“Haven’t we already had this conversation?” Maverick asks, trying for disdain but achieving something closer to rabid dog, and Ice just watches him, running his tongue over his lower lip, nostrils flaring, and then Maverick’s six inches from him, and it takes all of Ice’s considerable force of will to keep from reaching out and leaving some vivid bruises on the man’s throat, because he’s still fucking _talking_ -

“Let me guess, you gonna call me _dangerous_ again, Iceman?” he mocks, giving Ice’s name a subtly drawn out sibilant ‘s’.  Ice sucks in a breath, nearly a hiss- Mitchell’s insinuated almost-threat doesn’t go over his head, and the silence of the locker room is nearly deafening- a flash of nervousness or maybe regret crosses Maverick’s face, wondering if he’s finally gone too far, but instead of throttling Mitchell like he’s been contemplating, Ice just laughs, low and dark.  

“Nah, Maverick,” he murmurs, hitting the final syllable hard, and Mitchell may not know how to pull off disdain, but Ice sure does, “You’d like that too much.” Maverick looks like he’s about to argue, mutinous- Ice takes a smooth step forward, all coiled muscle and suppressed fury, and Maverick shuts his fucking mouth for once.  “It’s not that you’re _dangerous_ ,” he takes another step and Mitchell unconsciously shrinks back- Ice takes great pleasure in those few inches he has on the other pilot, looms over him like a specter, “It’s that you have all the self control of a fucking _child_.  Maybe…” Ice’s voice has dropped to a low hiss, the heat of his ire finally beginning to bleed into his tone, and he hadn’t even noticed that he’d moved forward again until his hands were pressed hard into lockers on either side of Maverick’s head, boxing him in.  “Maybe what you _need_ is someone willing to discipline you like one.”

“Fuck you, Kazansky.” Mitchell says, trying for his usual bluster, but a primal sort of nervousness lingers behind his eyes, and he makes no move to get away.  Ice’s mouth quirks at the corner, ruthless, feeding on this fight, flight, or fuck reaction Maverick seems to be experiencing-  he can see Mitchell’s pulse flickering and jumping just above his collar bone.  He has the sudden urge to clamp his teeth down over it.

“What, nothing to say?” he taunts, pressing forward, amused by the horrified look on Mitchell’s face, eyes darting to the door, when Ice’s thigh nudges against his hard-on.  

Maverick’s not a bad fighter; he’s got decent form, he’s lithe and agile.  But that can’t make up for the fact that he telegraphs his every move worse than almost anyone Ice has ever seen.  Then again, that’s what happens when you’re all balls and no brain, driven by instinct and nothing else.  So when Maverick takes a swing at him with something just shy of panic, Ice sidesteps him easily, snatching his arm out of the air and uses his momentum to flip him, pinning him securely against the locker with his arm twisted around behind his back.

“What are you doing?” Maverick asks, voice cracking almost imperceptibly.  

Ice grabs his hair and yanks his head back, just hard enough to let the man know he’s not fucking around- “What someone clearly should’ve done years ago, Mitchell.”

Maverick chokes out something in reply, but it’s barely audible and peppered with so many curses against Ice’s parentage that he doubts it’s even a coherent sentence.  “Ooh, the mouth on you,” he observes conversationally, then lets his hand fly, not bothering to temper the blow- He’d probably never get over that ass; tight enough to bounce a quarter off of or at least Ice’s hand, and Maverick’s skin is hot, he smells like adrenaline and sweat and jet fuel- he begins to struggle, finally, flushing bright from mortification more than pain as the sensation is dulled by his thick flight suit.  Iceman laughs low in his throat and pushes himself up flush against Maverick, grinding into him, one hand still tight on his hip, and the answering groan sends a familiar prickle of arousal over Ice’s skin, beginning to tighten in his belly, but he ignores it because he’s pissed as hell, dammit, and Maverick needs to fucking understand-  

“This what you want, Mitchell?  You want me to fuck you, right here, where anyone could walk in?” he snarls, letting go of his arm in favor of palming his rapidly hardening dick, and Maverick doesn’t beg, not ever, but his jaw clenches and he gives a jerky nod, expelling all of his air in a single, explosive breath- Ice grinds against him, rhythmic, teeth scraping across the back of his neck, and Ice knows it’s cruel, but he doesn’t even give a shit- “Too fucking bad.”

Maverick bucks hard against him, and Ice isn’t sure if he’s trying to dislodge him or just get some friction, but he steps back and begins rolling his sleeves up, deliberate.  Interestingly, Maverick doesn’t move, even though Ice is giving him plenty of space to get away.  Ice gets the distinct impression that Maverick won’t so much as twitch until Ice gives him permission, and the thought sends a jolt to his cock.  He wonders just how much obedience Maverick’s been shocked into.  

“Go lock the door.”  
   
Mitchell gives him a long, wary look over his shoulder.  Ice just raises an eyebrow.  Mav’s jaw clenches and he straightens, puffing his chest out and shooting Ice a glance that says ‘I’m only obeying right now because I want to’, then, miracle of miracles, does as he’s told.

He thinks he might like this side of Maverick- just insolent enough to keep things interesting, but ultimately submissive.  Then he’s back, standing in front of Ice with his arms crossed, back ramrod straight.  Ice doubts even he realizes that he’s waiting for instructions.  

“Strip.” his voice is admirably steady, and Maverick probably thinks Ice can’t see the way his lip curls as he turns his back and begins to shimmy out of his flight suit, shaking his tight little ass deliberately and stripping off his undershirt, leaving him in just his briefs.

Inwardly, Ice crows with laughter.  Outwardly, his expression doesn’t change.  The smirk drops off of Maverick’s face; he lowers his eyes and blushes hard, realizing suddenly that Ice is as serious as the fucking plague about this and he probably wouldn’t want to work the rage out of Ice with sex even if he could.  

“Lean forward.  Hands against the locker.”  the pitch of Ice’s voice is guttural, clipped and unyielding.  Maverick swallows, teeth sawing at his lower lip, and Ice's eyes openly track the progress of his adam's apple.  Mav nods, almost to himself, and turns to brace his hands against the locker.  Iceman takes a moment to admire the fine form of him, broad shoulders and trim waist, muscles taut, breath quick, anticipation evident in every tense line of his frame-    
      
“Fuck, Ice, just get _on_ with it-”

Ice grins his shark-grin.  

“Jesus, Mav.  You look like you’re just about ready to burst.” he taunts in a low murmur, pressing a knee between Maverick’s thighs and nudging them further apart, forcing him into a wider stance.  Maverick pants shallowly in response, his hands clawing against the metal.  Ice rubs a palm over the thin fabric of his briefs, and the gentle touch seems to have the opposite effect; rather than calming, Mitchell tenses further, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Ice is only too happy to comply and drop that fucker like a bad habit.  

His hand comes down on Maverick’s ass, three times in quick succession, all in the same place, and he can see his jaw clenching as he rocks with the blows, refusing to make a sound.  That won’t last long.  

“ _You,_ Mitchell…” Ice begins, hand stilling for less than a second before delivering another burning slap, this one to the other cheek, “are an arrogant,” and again, harder, “stubborn,” this time Ice’s hand goes wide and lands on the exposed skin of his upper thigh, and Maverick chokes out a tiny moan, “out of control,” Ice likes the response the blow got, so he repeats it, hard enough that his whole arm reverberates with it “ _selfish_ ,” Maverick cries out, but Ice just speaks over him, drags his fingernails across the dark red marks his hand had left, other hand clamping down on his hip to hold it still as he jerks forward in an abortive attempt to get some relief.  “-son of a bitch, and I’m fucking _tired_ of wondering-” the whip-crack clap of skin on skin echoes around the large room, and Maverick’s knuckles are beginning to turn white, “-if you’re gonna get yourself _killed_ every goddamn time you get in a fucking cockpit.” Ice’s hand throbs, and he’s panting, he’s said more than he meant to, but-

“I-I’m sorry.” Maverick gasps, bowing his head and swallowing back a shout as Ice’s hand comes down again over already-stinging flesh, and Ice wonders if the low burn has graduated to pure pain yet.   He stills, more to rest his hand than out of concern for the state of Maverick’s ass.  

“Sorry for what, Mitchell?” his voice may be glacial, but his hand’s a fucking inferno.  Maverick doesn’t answer for a long moment, so Ice smacks him again, but softer this time, more a reminder than a reproach.  

Maverick chuckles, low and bitter and raw.  “For being a stupid son of a bitch… throwing tantrums.” his voice is stilted, like he’s forcing it steady.  “I didn’t, uh-” he pauses, hands slipping down a few inches, leaning his forehead against the locker, unconsciously mirroring Ice’s earlier position. “Didn’t know anyone gave a shit.”

Ice grabs his shoulder and spins him around bodily, pressing his back against the lockers, searching his face for any sign of bullshit and finding none-  
“You.  Stupid.  Goddamn.  Motherfucker.” he mutters, biting his fist to keep from slamming it into something.  “You’ve been flying like a fucking kamikaze because you-” Ice’s voice rises, and Maverick looks gobsmacked and a little turned on as Ice fucking loses it, kicking Slider’s locker so hard it pops open, and Ice doesn’t so much as pause in his rant- “didn’t know anyone fucking cared?!” he spins and jabs his index finger in Mitchell’s face, “This is the goddamn _Navy_ , you narcissistic little shit.  We’re your fucking _family_.  Of course someone fucking cares, _Christ_.”  

Maverick gives a little half-shrug.  “Don’t get all worked up, Kazansky, I’m not gonna go slit my goddamn wrists or nothin’.” he snorts, holding a hand up like he’s trying to talk Iceman down, which is a fucking laugh but also might be sort of true.  Then he’s as serious as Ice has ever seen him “It’s just- my parents aren’t around, no, uh, biological family, I guess.  Goose was my brother, and now he’s-” he swallows, hard, and Ice stares up at the ceiling like he’s trying to set it on fire.  

“Charlie.” he grinds out finally, not looking at Maverick.

"Huh?"

"Charlie.  Your girlfriend.  Idiot."

Maverick busts out laughing.  “Really, man?  Charlie?  If I told Charlie I was shipping out tomorrow and wouldn't be back for a year, she'd tell me to have a nice trip and pack some sunscreen.”

Ice glances back down, and Maverick’s just standing there with his hands on his hips and one eyebrow cocked like he can’t believe Ice suggested something that stupid.

“Fine.  Carol, then.” Mitchell just shakes his head. 

“Fuck you, Pete.” he growls, shooting him a glare.  “Me.”

Maverick starts to shake his head again, then Ice’s words register.  “What?”

“Me, you daft piece of shit.  I fucking care.”  He opens his mouth to say something else, but then it’s full of Maverick’s tongue and his hands are full of Maverick’s ass, and he thinks maybe, just maybe, Maverick’s finally gotten the point.


	2. Chapter 2

Ice may have locked the door, and it may be after hours, but that doesn’t mean nobody comes knocking when an unusually pissed off Iceman and an unsuspecting Maverick have been alone in the locker room for who knows how long, then someone kicks a locker and Ice’s voice echoes uncharacteristically into the hallway, and the idea of scrubbing blood out of the floors doesn’t particularly appeal.  It’s a Friday, the boys were going to the Officers’ Club anyway, and it’s not like Maverick doesn’t deserve whatever new orifice Ice is ripping him- 

Still.

Slider waits 20 minutes. 

He starts to push open the door, realizes it’s locked, and proceeds to get a little… Anxious.  So he bashes his knuckles against it, hard enough to bruise. “The fuck, Ice?  I swear to god, man, if you killed him, I’m not helping you hide the body.”

They break apart, panting, heads jerking around to stare at the door for half a second, and then they’re moving- Ice, still more or less fully clothed, nods toward the showers without a word; Mav’s eyes widen; suddenly he realizes just how big a risk they’ve been running.  He shucks his underwear, practically _runs_ to the showers, and Ice waits until he hears the spray of water before striding to the door.  He pauses, touches his lips with his fingers for a moment, knows they’re swollen and red and likely to give him away, and he cringes.  Nothing for it.  Maybe he can play off the flush as anger.  His hands move again, economical, zipping his flight suit, trying to arrange his hair into something resembling order, then they’re on the lock, pulling the door open-

“Christ, Tom…”  Slider glances at him, frown deepening, then pushes past, ignoring Ice’s furrowed brow- “What’d you do with him?”

Ice chokes.

“What?”

“What’d you do with him, where is he?” 

“…Slider, you don’t genuinely think I murdered him, do you?”  Ice’s mouth twitches.   He’d have laughed if his RIO didn’t look so fucking worried.  “He’s in the fucking shower, man.  Christ.”

 Slider’s cheeks go a little red and he deflates a little.  “Oh.  Right.  Uh, good point, you’re not really the type for… homicide.  I guess I’ll just…” he gestures awkwardly toward the door.

Ice cocks his head, studying the set of his jaw, then a characteristic sly grin crosses Slider’s face.   “For the record…  I’d help you hide it.”

Iceman snorts.  “Thanks.”

Slider just nods, looking maybe a little bit too perceptive for Ice’s comfort, but his cooly amused mask doesn’t flicker, not even once.  He claps a hand to Iceman’s shoulder, brusk, not quite meeting his eyes.  “Tell the asshole Viper’s lookin’ for him.” 

Ice raises an eyebrow.  “The fuck makes you think we’re talking?  Two minutes ago you thought I’d stuffed his body in my locker.”

Maverick chooses this moment to creep out of the showers, towel slung around his waist, and to Ice’s credit, his eyes barely flick in Maverick’s direction, perfect cool dismissiveness, entirely controlled, but Maverick blushes like a fucking virginal schoolgirl, practically shuffling his feet, and Ice has to resist the urge to smack him.  Slider coughs.  “Right.  ‘Course you’re not.  You coming tonight?”

Ice sticks his tongue firmly into his cheek and stifles an entirely inappropriate response.  Slider seems to catch the unspoken thought, and, although his nose wrinkles slightly, he coughs again, and this one sounds suspiciously like a laugh.        

“Maybe.  Not sure yet.”

“Right.  Don’t do anything stupid, Ice.”

He fixes Slider with a vaguely condescending look, but his ice-chip eyes thaw for a second, and they both know he’s grateful, that this is the closest thing to tacit acceptance he’ll ever get.  

“Maverick,” Slider barks, all the good natured whatever-it-was disappearing- he’s still pissed, maybe even as much as Ice was.  Maybe even more  “Viper wants you in his office five minutes ago.”

Slider turns his back, clearly intending to escort him like a kid to the principal’s office.  Ice rolls his eyes, very much avoiding looking at Maverick, bare and dripping, dressing as quickly as humanly possible.  He and Slider are halfway out the door when Ice’s cognitive faculties return and he calls, “Hey, Mitchell.  Officer’s club tonight.  No more drinking alone.”

 _‘We’re your fucking family.’_

Mav nods. 

****

Ice leans against the smooth wood of the bar and nurses a vodka tonic, a sip every few minutes, more to have something in his hand than out of any particular partiality to the taste.  He's clad in his best dress whites.  He convinces himself it’s purely out of a desire to represent his country best he can, rather than because there’s no way he _couldn’t_ have noticed the wolfish, hungry cast to Maverick’s expression the last time he wore them. 

He rolls his drink around in his mouth, nodding vaguely at something the brunette next to him says- she’s cute, or maybe sexy, he recognizes it in an intellectual way- curvy with big tits and shiny dark hair.  Smart, too, on a vacation from Law School from… somewhere, he wasn’t paying much attention.  She’s interested, though- her tongue darts over her lower lip, lascivious, and he sort of wishes he could just tell her, feels bad for wasting her time, but Slider toasts him with a curled lip, and Wolf and Hollywood are both watching with something like awe, so he casually brushes her hand as he passes her another drink, laughs low at some witty remark, and pretends he isn’t going half out of his goddamn mind waiting for Maverick to show up.

 Which he does.

At Ice’s elbow, to be exact. 

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice the Maverick until he’s sliding an arm smoothly over his shoulder, throwing the brunette a charming smile.  “Sorry, Miss, mind if I steal my friend here for a minute?” Ice watches with interest as he glances at her coyly under his eyelashes, throwing her a wink that leaves a rather endearing little blush on her face, “Official business, you understand.” 

And then he drags Iceman away, swaggering even more than normal, if that’s even possible, leaving Hollywood and Wolf to start jeering about cock-blockers; Ice laughs, a deep, belly laugh that makes his whole face screw up at the absurdity of the whole damn thing, and allows Maverick to lead him over to a table. 

“Fond of brunettes, are ya?”

Ice is still giggling, trying to calm himself by gulping at his drink, not even entirely sure what is so funny, but Maverick essentially just staked claim to him in front of the entire bar; albeit not in a romantic way, but he’s done it all the same.  The thought of Maverick pushing the girl away, dipping him low and planting a sloppy kiss on him like in some horrible movie strikes him, and he begins sputtering with giggles again-  “Wh-what?”

“The brunette.  She was hot, man.  Great pair of…” Mav holds his hands out in front of his chest obscenely, and Ice snorts into his glass, but Maverick doesn’t stop- “Great ass, too, bet you noticed that…”

Ice pauses, noticing the weird light in Maverick’s eyes, almost possessive or something, and stares at him, gapes really.  “Oh my fucking Jesus.”

“What?” Yep, that was defensiveness.  He crunches a cube of ice between his molars.

“You’re…” Ice lowers his voice, unable to totally keep the outright amusement out of his tone because it’s just too goddamn funny-

“You’re- fucking balls, Mav, you’re _jealous_.”

“No I’m not.” Mitchell says, too quickly, looking off to the left.  They were gonna need to have a conversation about his deplorable lying skills. 

“Mmmm.  Sure.”  Not a safe place to have this conversation.  “What’d Viper want?”

“To knock some sense into me, same as you.”  He pauses, pulling a face, “ ‘Course, he did it _verbally_.”

Ice just shrugs, flashing him a grin.  “Worked, didn’t it?”

“Nobody can give me shit like you can, Tom.”

“God, I hope not.  For your sake.  Don’t think your ass could take it.”

Maverick flushes bright, and Ice wets his lips unconsciously.  God, he wants to- shit, he doesn’t even _know_ anymore, but the low-level arousal that has been buzzing underneath his skin for the past three hours surges in him with a vengeance-

He finishes off his drink and stands, looks down at half-sprawled Maverick, not unconscious of the fact that his face is level with Ice’s crotch. 

“You have half an hour, Mitchell.  Don’t be late.”


	3. Chapter 3

Ice doesn’t have to wait that long.  

He steps out of his shoes at his door, nudging them with one socked foot so that they’re parallel, then moves into the living room and turns on a lamp; soft light, soothing.  He glances around the room, eyes drifting over the familiar furniture, hoping for something else on which to focus his attention.  

He should probably eat something.  He can hold his liquor damn well, but he’s feeling mildly buzzed, his whole body warm, hornier than he’s been in possibly his entire life, and he’d rather attribute it to the alcohol than any special effect Mitchell has on him.  More specifically, the thought of Mitchell on his knees, skin flushed with arousal and Ice’s handprints, ready and begging for-

He swallows hard and walks into the kitchen, patently refusing to acknowledge his hard-on, refusing to allow his movements to reflect how out of sorts he feels, deliberately slowing his steps-

God, but this was going to be good.  

He grabs an ice cube out of the freezer, slides it over the back of his neck before popping it into his mouth- it’s slightly salty, and coolness pools over his tongue.  Suddenly the familiar stiffness of his dress whites is suffocating, and so to the bedroom he goes, and he strips with the same military precision he does everything.  Only he’d ever be able to notice the slight tremble of his fingers on smooth buttons.  

And then he’s standing there in his underwear, in the middle of his bedroom, with no idea what to  do now.  It seems sort of silly to get dressed, knowing he’ll be naked again in short order barring some sort of apocalyptic event.  Actually, even the apocalypse probably couldn’t keep his dick out of Maverick at this point.  He tugs on a pair of jeans, not bothering with a shirt, and figures that’s compromise enough.  He checks his watch.  It’s only been 15 minutes.  Fuck.

He throws himself down on top of his comforter, stares at the ceiling, and _damn_ do his pants feel tight… Ice gives in and rubs his palm over the straining denim, eyes drifting closed… Maybe he should just take the edge off; Maverick was going to be the one begging tonight, it wouldn’t do to be so hungry for it by the time he gets here that Ice can’t draw it out…  The image of the flex of Mitchell’s ass as he leaned against the lockers, bracing himself in anticipation, flickers to the forefront of his mind and his lips part, a shallow gasp-

Fuck it to the highest degree.

He pops the button open, pushes his jeans down low on his hips, and gives his cock a single, languid stroke, shivering slightly as he falls into a steady rhythm, Maverick’s hand, it was his hand, and Ice’s hand was on Maverick’s cock, and they were stroking each other off- Maverick’s voice would crack as he murmured-

“Ice-”

It takes Iceman a good 15 seconds to realize that _hadn’t_ just been a fantastically vivid fantasy, but Maverick’s actual voice saying his name.  His eyes pop open, and he does his best not to look like his heart is trying to beat out of his chest (which it is), or fall off the bed completely (which he doesn’t), and he turns his head to look at the man hovering in the door, schooling his face into something resembling annoyance.  “Christ, Maverick, you ever knock?”

Maverick’s eyes have gone dark, iris nearly crowded out by dilated pupils, his lips are parted, and he can’t seem to force his gaze up to Ice’s face.   A slow grin works its way across Ice’s mouth, and he resumes his movement, but it’s slower this time, deliberate, putting on a show.  

“I- uhm.  Your front door…” Mav trails off, following the path of Iceman’s hand, then he shakes his head, sharply, like a dog shaking off water, “Quit that.  Fucking distracting…”

 Ice just gives him a wide eyed, innocent look, and folds both arms behind his head, not bothering to do up his pants, and Maverick rolls his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, tries to pretend Ice can’t see that he’s already hard. 

“I _did_ knock, you ass, but you were apparently… otherwise engaged.  So I used the key under the mat.  You should probably put that somewhere less obvious, by the way.”

Then he looks at Ice again, this time tinged with amusement but mostly lust- “Are you wearing jeans?”

Ice’s left eyebrow inches up.  “Why, yes, Mitchell, I believe I am.  Why do you ask?”  

Maverick grins and shrugs off his leather jacket.  “Didn’t know you owned ‘em.”

Iceman starts to ask why the fuck he wouldn’t own a pair of jeans (did Maverick think he was a fucking investment banker or some shit?) but then Mav’s stripping off his own shirt, and he gets distracted by the smooth expanse of skin now available to him- he saunters over to the bed, and Ice half expects him to flop down beside him or maybe on top of him, impatient as usual, but…

No, Maverick stops at the foot of the bed, clasps his hands behind his back, spine straight, chin dipping down ever so slightly, and he _waits_.  

Waits for instruction.  

Ice’s mouth goes dry. 

 _‘Well I’ll be damned.’_

He feels his lips curl into a dark little smile and he draws his tongue across them as he pushes himself up onto his forearms.  

“Take off your clothes, fold them, and-” Ice pauses, teeth flashing as he notices Maverick’s belt, thick, supple black leather with a polished sheen- “Hand me your belt.”

Maverick pauses, hands slowing on the button of his jeans, glancing up at Ice, uncertain.  Ice gives his cock one final, lazy stroke, then tucks himself back into his pants and slides off the bed, circling behind Maverick without touching.  “I know why you’re standing there, waiting for orders, Mitchell.  I know why you didn’t move in the locker room when I gave you the chance.”

His voice dips lower, husky, and his lips graze against Maverick’s exposed shoulder, smirks as his breath quickens.  “You don’t have to give me your belt, Mav.  You can say no, and we can fuck, same way we always have.  Or…” he scrapes his nails lightly across his lower back, and Maverick shudders, head tipping back, cheeks flushing hot, “You can take the risk.  Be a little… What’s the word?”

“Dangerous.” Maverick whispers, almost like he can’t help it.

Ice laughs low in his throat.  “Yeah, that’s it.”

And then he stops beside Mitchell, his eyes tracing the man’s body, every tense line of him, and he can’t resist- he takes Maverick’s chin and kisses him deeply, nips at his lower lip, tastes him, spicy and masculine and vaguely like cheap beer.  Then he pulls away and settles himself back against the headboard once again, waiting.  Maverick takes a couple of deep breaths, steeling himself, then tugs his belt free of its loops, folds it once, and steps forward, pressing it into Ice’s hands.  

He smiles, does his best to ignore the thrumming surge of arousal under his skin, the throb in his groin, rubbing the smooth leather absently with his thumb as he watches Maverick strip himself bare, every inch of him accessible to Ice’s eyes, lips, teeth, tongue, hands- not that Ice indulges any but his eyes, not yet, because he wants to draw this out and watch Maverick beg and plead and squirm-

He circles round Maverick again, hand grazing his ass, examining the marks he’d left earlier- they’ve faded, mostly, with the very palest of bruises here and there, still that dusky dark pink rather than the plum and ochre of deeper, healing things.  He bites his lower lip, hard.  He’ll be striping that ass scarlet.

“Lean forward.  Brace your hands on the bed.”

  
This time, Maverick doesn’t even hesitate, he just leans forward, widening his stance before Ice can even remind him, and Ice has to battle the urge to fuck him through the floor then and there, because _damn_ is he good at this, a quick learner, practically made for it-

He’s gentle at first- well, not _gentle,_ but he hardly puts his whole strength behind it, mindful of the fact that Maverick’s a beginner and his ass is still bruised, but even so, the very first burning stroke of his own belt leaves Maverick panting, his fingers tightening around the wood of the baseboard.

Ice pauses, reveling in the ragged sound of Maverick’s breath, rubs the cool leather against the blooming redness as if to soothe- Maverick moans, low, arching back into Ice’s hands, and Ice presses a kiss to his back, just above his shoulder blade, then lets his hand fly again, the crack of the belt breaking the silence once, twice, thrice- he doesn’t pause, doesn’t let Maverick catch his breath, just continues with methodical, even, controlled strokes, even though he is anything but cool, even though the animalistic keening and low groans ripping themselves from Maverick’s throat are doing a number on the hardness of his dick-

He stops at 15 strokes, when the groans have transmuted into low shouts and Mitchell is rocking with the blows, totally letting himself go, sweat dripping down his neck.  It’s too much- Ice tosses the belt to the side and rubs his palm over the angry red marks he’s left, and Maverick presses into the touch, into Ice’s hand, and Ice knows, he’s experienced it, he knows that adrenaline is singing in Mitchell’s veins same as it does when they’re in the air, and he knows that the sharp liquid burn is painful, it hurts like hell, it hurts worse than anything, but god how he craves the touch-

“Hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Y-yeah, but…” Maverick pauses, rubbing the heel of his hands across his eye, brushing off a stray tear or maybe sweat, Ice isn’t totally sure.

“But?” he draws his fingernails over Mitchell’s ass again, and he moans low, can’t finish, doesn’t have the words- “But you want it.  You love it.  It makes you feel alive.” he finishes for him, low, breath against Maverick’s ear, pressing his cock against the cleft of Maverick’s ass, and he just nods like a bobble-head, face going slack.  “What do you want, Mitchell?”

“I want- can I..? I want to suck your cock.  Please.”

And damn if hearing that doesn’t make Ice twitch.

He spins Maverick around, pressing him back into the bed, kissing him as deep as he possibly can, as deep as he knows how.  Mav slides down to his knees, sitting back on his haunches, and Ice doesn’t miss the slight wince when it puts a little pressure on his well-abused ass, but then he’s tugging Ice’s jeans down around his thighs and taking his cock all the way in, and Ice tangles his fingers in Maverick’s hair,  because _holy shit, Maverick has just swallowed him whole and he can feel his tongue near the base of his cock, and holy fucking hell-_

He uses his grip on his hair to pull Maverick off, just for a second, to catch his breath, but something about the sheer physicality of the spanking has apparently turned Maverick’s brain off, turned him into something totally different and unselfconscious, and he sucks hard at the head of Ice’s cock, drawing his tongue up underneath, sawing at the ridge, and Ice can’t even begin to help it, he pushes back into the man’s mouth, a little choking gasp breaking the silence as Mav’s throat relaxes and takes him in again, grinds his crotch against Ice’s leg, and then Ice is fucking his mouth, not even intentionally, but god, it’s just so _good_ -   _“Fuck,_ Maverick, you’re gonna-”

It’s not until the edges of his vision begin to blur and he realizes that he’s about to come that he remembers his plan.  Ice pulls him away once again with a loud pop, and _christ_ , the mouth on him, tugs him to his feet and into Ice’s arms, growling low as the motion brings their hips together, sliding their cocks against one another.  He maneuvers them onto the bed, rolls Maverick onto his stomach, and he’s whispering obscene things in Mitchell’s ear, laying out every detail of what he’s going to do to him as he works two well lubed fingers into his ass, and Maverick fucking _sobs_ as Ice’s fingers brush against his prostate, begs, sounds completely goddamn _wrecked_ as Ice works him up, adding a third finger, stretching him-

“Ice, _please_ -”

That sound, that whimper, leaves him undone, and he can’t do anything but roll a condom on and sink deep into Maverick’s ass, their breathing, the ragged sounds of low moans syncing up, and then Ice is fucking him, hard, pulling Maverick up on all fours and wrapping his hand around Maverick’s already leaking dick, and it won’t last long now, despite what Ice had planned, because Maverick is writhing underneath him, stretched tight around him, and he’s moaning with every stroke, whole body shuddering.  He’s coming in thick spurts all over Ice’s hand, and that pushes Ice over completely, knowing _he’s_ the one who made Maverick come that hard, made him whimper, and then Ice’s vision goes completely white, static behind his eyeballs, temporarily blind and maybe deaf because it feels like he’s screaming but he can’t hear it, he can only feel, just bury himself in Maverick’s ass and come harder than he’s ever come in his life, coming like his head is caving in, his lungs burning-

 

He collapses on top of Maverick, and they lay there for however long, it doesn’t really matter, Ice figures, just breathing and tangled up in a pile of sweaty limbs.  Finally, Maverick rolls them over so his head is resting on Ice’s chest, fingers absently twirling his chest hairs, a terrifyingly satiated smile on his face.  “Pretty fucking incestuous family, Ice.”

Ice doesn’t have to ask what he means, he just convulses with laughter, flicking the side of  Maverick’s head and wrapping his arm around him.  “I’m hungry.” he yawns.  “Let’s have pancakes.”

It’s an uncharacteristically impulsive move, suggesting that they make pancakes at two in the morning, but fuck it.  Boundaries have been broken, tonight.  Ice grins as Maverick nods, sleepily.  “Mm.  That sounds good.”

They don’t move.  

Maverick’s breathing deepens and evens out as he slips into the calmest sleep Ice has witnessed Maverick have since Goose, and he brushes his thumb across his jaw, tender.  As he buries his nose in Maverick’s hair, he figures pancakes can probably wait.


End file.
